You Are My Poetry
by CeliaEquus
Summary: In Sherlock's wardrobe, John finds a tin box filled with envelopes addressed to different people. Mycroft's explanation turns everything John had believed about his flatmate upside down. The envelopes contain... well, not love letters, but close. Set post-Reichenbach. Disclaimer: I don't own 'Sherlock', nor am I making any money from this. Multiple one-sided pairings. Not a 5 1.
1. Prologue

"Prologue"

It was months after the funeral before John could bring himself to return to 221B Baker Street and begin to sort through Sherlock's effects. He'd asked, prayed, _begged_ for a miracle, that Sherlock would waltz through the door and say that it was all a mistake, or that John had dreamed everything. That it was a joke. That he never died.

But he never came.

John was nowhere near as observant as Sherlock; but even he couldn't miss the finger-sized hole in the bottom of the wardrobe. When the wood lifted away, he discovered a hidden compartment which held only one tin box, and nothing else.

Sherlock was dead. This couldn't – in any way, shape, or form – be considered an invasion of privacy. And so John lifted the lid of the tin, and stared down at the contents. He sifted through, finding nothing but sealed envelopes, each with a name on the front. There were fewer than a dozen, but John recognised the names, including his own.

Sitting back on the floor, propped against the bed, John debated over whether or not to make the call. In the end, he felt that he had to.

"You have found a box in Sherlock's room," Mycroft said before John could speak. "I imagine it was under a floorboard, or in the false bottom of an item of furniture. Am I correct?"

John looked around the room suspiciously, trying to find a camera. "Yeah…"

"His bedroom is no longer under surveillance. It was a simple deduction to make, Dr. Watson. You have questions."

"What's with the envelopes? Are they letters, in the event of his… his…" John cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the lump. "Death?"

"No," Mycroft said. "Sherlock allows his collection to build up, and then he burns them once he has reached ten. How many envelopes are in the box?"

"Eight."

"Hmm." There was silence for half a minute, while John played with the seal of the envelope bearing his name. "Dr. Watson, my brother may not appear to be the type; however, he falls in love with remarkable ease." John's jaw dropped. "He has perfected a mask of indifference over the years. Yet this has been occurring since early childhood, and it appears that time has not diminished this unfortunate habit of his."

"It's permanently diminished now," John muttered.

"…Indeed."

He sighed. "So what are you saying, Mycroft? What does that have to do with… these?"

"Just as he falls in love, so he falls out of love. Sherlock's feelings have always been unrequited, or so he believes. By the time the object of his affection returns any of his sentiment, Sherlock has purged them from his heart, and deleted the memory of being in love with them from his 'mind palace'. The poetry assists this process."

"Poetry?" John couldn't tear his eyes from the stationery laid out before him. "Sherlock wrote poems?"

"No, Dr. Watson. He found them. He finds… he _would_ find a poem appropriate to the situation, write it down, seal it in an envelope with the person's name on the front, and then store it away. Using another's words is less personal. If you recall, I said that he burns them all after the tenth person."

John considered this with a heavy heart. "How many times has he…?"

"Performed a ritual burning? More than you would believe. I lost track after the first three. My brother is used to rejection, although it seems that as he ages, he loses hope far too quickly. He never gives them time to reciprocate."

"But that's horrible!"

"There is one addressed to you, is there not, doctor?"

"Well… yes."

"I do not know how Sherlock would feel about you reading… however, I cannot prevent you."

John nodded. "How did you know about all this?"

"I suggested it to Sherlock. The first few with whom he became infatuated, he assigned them poems. We worked out this system together, and at first he would approach me each time the box became full, so that we could burn them together. Then I went to boarding school, and so he was left to deal with it on his own. After that time, he became closed off from me. Who knows how many have captured his affections unknowingly since that time?"

"Or knowingly, and they just didn't want him," John said, tracing the letters of his name in that fluid, familiar script. How had he not noticed? Did Sherlock give up on him as a lost cause straight away? Or was it after John insisted that they weren't a couple, or that he wasn't gay, for the umpteenth time?

"Quite," Mycroft said, imposing on John's thoughts. "Do not make the mistake of thinking that his feelings are any less strong than someone who takes a long time to fall in love and to recover from a broken heart. Is that all, Dr. Watson?"

"What? Oh, yes. Yeah, thanks, Mycroft."

"You are welcome, doctor." There was a pause. Then… "Don't give up."

With those enigmatic last words – John refused to let himself hope anymore – Mycroft hung up, and John was left to wonder whether or not he should read Sherlock's most personal thoughts.

* * *

**I can't remember where I found the inspiration for this… yes, I do! It was when I searched through one of my poetry books for an appropriate title for a fic I was writing, since I used to be able to come up with good titles, and now I can't. At least I think my titles used to be good. Maybe they never were? Gah!**

**Moving on.**

**The very first poem in the book was just what I was after, but I kept flipping through, and decided that, yes, this just might work. And thus this story was born.**

**Many thanks to donnabella2k7 for her input on this story. There were too many possibly ways for this to go, and she makes an excellent sounding board. Truly.**

**Please review! Poems have been chosen, and so suggestions are not required.**


	2. The Work

"The Work"

John could hardly believe that there was an envelope dedicated to Sherlock's occupation. How lonely had his flatmate been that he imagined himself in love with what was, essentially, his job? Without knowing the story behind it, John nevertheless read the poem.

* * *

Almost from the beginning of his career – before he had developed the term 'consulting detective' – Sherlock had considered himself married to his work. The Work was essential. The Work would never betray him. The Work was intangible enough so that Sherlock could annul the marriage should he ever find someone to love him for who he was. Love him, and want to marry him. He was fifteen when he discovered the term bisexual, and he knew that that's what he was.

Regardless, The Work was the central figure in his life, the only thing of importance after Mycroft abandoned him for school. He had no other name for his obsession than The Work, and so The Work it remained. There was no image in his mind of what The Work might look like in human form. Not until he found cocaine.

Yes. When Sherlock took to cocaine, he wondered how he could have neglected the emotional aspect of his relationship to his work. It would be weeks before he was found by New Scotland Yard's finest during a raid, high as a kite and probably stark naked, or very nearly. After all, it was important to consummate this long-standing marriage.

"Beautiful," Sherlock crooned when he first saw The Work. He knew who it was immediately; of course he did, just as he knew his own name (for the next few minutes).

The Work was lovely. Androgenous, yes; no obvious genitalia, chest smooth and flat as his cheek, hair a mixture of colours and lengths and styles. When The Work got close, Sherlock could see the multi-hued eyes in all three dimensions, could very nearly caress The Work's skin. He/she was indeed lovely.

And yet once the drugs wore off, there would be no vision of flesh-and-blood ambiguity, no physical manifestation of his work-spouse. In between random jobs where he would slip just the right clues and tip-offs to NSY, or assist Mycroft, Sherlock would find respite in his use of recreational drugs. No matter how he tried, he could never touch The Work. It was as unsatisfying high as it was when he was clean. Cases were few and far between.

"Sherlock, you must cease this," Mycroft scolded over the phone. Sherlock giggled manically.

"You should see it," he slurred, gazing over at his companion. "She… he… it's gorgeous. Your it-in-law." He laughed again. "It-in-law. Is that a dietary regulation, Mycroft?" (Well, it was meant to sound like 'dietary regulation'.) "You'd know all about that, wouldn't you, brother?"

"Must I admit you to a rehabilitation centre?" Mycroft asked.

"No!" Sherlock said firmly. "Then I'll never see The Work again."

"Yes, you will. You will still have the work, I assure you. I will even establish a liaison for you at Scotland Yard, so that you may have more frequent cases. In the meantime, you must get clean, Sherlock." Mycroft rang off then, and Sherlock was left staring at his phone.

But The Work was calling to him. Sherlock turned, bleary-eyed, and smiled at his one true love.

One true love, until halfway through his treatment, when Sherlock realised that his mirage had been just that; an hallucination of nothing definite, intended to entice him further into his addiction. Thinking with a clear head once more, he acknowledged that The Work was not a being. It would never love him back.

It was a long time before Sherlock fell in love again. He never doubted that he would.

_To My Inconstant Mistress_

Thomas Carew

When thou, poor excommunicate

From all the joys of love, shalt see

The full reward and glorious fate

Which my strong faith shall purchase me,

Then curse thine own inconstancy.

A fairer hand than thine shall cure

That heart which thy false oaths did wound;

And to my soul a soul more pure

Than thine shall by Love's hand be bound,

And both with equal glory crowned.

Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain

To Love, as I did once to thee;

When all thy tears shall be as vain

As mine were then, for thou shalt be

Damned for thy false apostasy.

* * *

**N****o, this fic isn't supposed to be crack. Okay, some crack-y pairings, but I tried to make it seem less so for The Work.**

**Please review!**


	3. Mrs Hudson

"Mrs. Hudson"

John went downstairs to find Mrs. Hudson. She was baking, her movements slower than usual. She'd lost something of her spirit after Sherlock's suicide.

"Here," he said, holding out the envelope. "This is for you." He gave her the barest explanation of the circumstances, and she nodded, tears forming in her eyes, as she opened the envelope.

"It was when we met in Florida," she said, and she pulled out the piece of paper. She covered her mouth as she gasped. "Oh my."

"What is it?" John asked, and he stepped behind her to read the short poem.

* * *

After rehab, Sherlock was rewarded with travelling the world for a time, while Mycroft tried to remedy matters in London. New Scotland Yard would, naturally, be reluctant to engage the services of a former junkie. And so Sherlock decided to embrace the opportunity to experience other cultures, learn anything relevant (and discard anything irrelevant) for possible future cases. Poisons used in different countries; plants, creatures, cults; all of the important information was stored on his mental hard drive.

It was in America that Sherlock came across some of the more interesting cases he had ever had the pleasure to solve. One such case was of a man by the name of Hudson, on trial for murder in Florida. After performing some of his usual mundane deductions when he peeked at the crime scene, Sherlock was granted an audience with the suspect. Two minutes with the man, and another minute looking over the evidence taken from the crime scene, had Sherlock convinced of his guilt.

He had heard of the man's wife, of course. He was forbidden from seeing her at first, which was tiresome. However, the case was far from dull, and so he waited it out, seeing her – for the first time – in court.

She was fairly attractive for a woman her age, and gave no sign of being overly emotional as she watched the prosecution tear her husband's weak alibi to shreds. In fact, judging from the way she massaged her upper arm and smiled, Sherlock suspected that she would be relieved to see the back of her husband.

"You are very brave," he murmured to himself as she faced the press with a small smile and a few quiet words. Sherlock was skulking behind a convenient pillar. His heart stopped momentarily when she sought him out nonetheless, and tilted her head. The attorney with her noticed Sherlock as well, and must have told Mrs. Hudson who he was, because she smiled, and mouthed 'thank you'.

Sherlock swallowed, and drew back into the shadows, a blush already dying his cheeks a dusky pink. It was happening again.

Mr. Hudson was executed by lethal injection. Sherlock sat a few chairs behind Mrs. Hudson, but he could see in the reflection of the glass that she looked calm, almost serene. Mycroft had chuckled for about two seconds when Sherlock began to wax poetic over the phone, and wished him luck. For Mycroft, that was close to hysterical laughter.

"You are Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said, and Sherlock shook her hand. His own was clammy, and his throat felt thick.

"I am," he said. "Do you miss him?"

Mrs. Hudson looked back at the glass window thoughtfully. Not many women could look at the corpse of their late husband and not shed a tear.

"No," she said. "He was a murderer, and his victim was innocent. Didn't deserve what happened… well." She shrugged, smiling again. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

"Please, call me Sherlock," he said quickly. He stood, remembering his manners, and escorted her from the room. He convinced her to join him for tea at a nearby café, and found himself more infatuated as they talked about England, Florida, and their travels.

"You're a good boy," she said as he summoned the cheque. She patted his hand. "You'll make a lovely husband for some lucky girl. Or boy."

She squeezed his fingers, and it felt like she was squeezing his heart to bursting point. Or breaking point.

"Not necessarily," he said, eyeing her as he counted out money. "I could be interested in a woman, not a girl. I am in my late twenties, you know."

"And I'm much older than you, dear," she said. She gave him a knowing look, and he very nearly melted from embarrassment. It had been so long since he fell for another human being that his mask must have slipped. "Oh, don't be like that, Sherlock. It happens to all of us. Why, my husband was more than ten years older than me. There's nothing wrong with an age difference."

"I shouldn't feel like this," he said softly. "You've only just been widowed this afternoon."

"I was a widow the minute he ended another's life," Mrs. Hudson said. "I do owe you, Sherlock. If ever you need a favour, don't hesitate to call on me. But I'm heading back to London next week, and you have a long life ahead of you. Don't mistake me." She winked. "I'm flattered by the interest."

"You shouldn't be," he hurried to say. "You are truly—"

She held up one hand, and his words petered out. "Sherlock, if we had enough time, it would be lovely to get to know you better. But the great romance of my life is over, and you've not found one yet, have you?" Hesitantly, Sherlock shook his head. "I know these things, dear. Now, you go on and keep travelling, and let's hope we see each other again someday. Is that all right?"

He could only nod. He did bend over to kiss her hand, and left behind more than enough money to cover their afternoon tea. Mentally berating himself, he returned to his hotel room, stole some of the stationery, and wrote 'Mrs. Hudson' on the front of the envelope. Once he found the right poem, he would seal it inside.

In the meantime, he would delete the memory of these feelings from his mind. After all, if ever he did meet Mrs. Hudson again, he would hate for things to be awkward between them. Perhaps, by then, he would have found the great romance of his life?

(Unlikely, he knew, but he could always dream. And did.)

_His Mother's Wedding Ring_

George Crabbe

The ring so worn, as you behold,

So thin, so pale, is yet of gold:

The passion such it was to prove:

Worn with life's cares, love yet was love.

* * *

**Another crack pairing, I suppose. I just liked the thought of using this poem, and Mrs. Hudson is enough of a firecracker to have attracted Sherlock's attention in some capacity.**

**In the courtroom, I was trying to imply that Mr. Hudson had hurt her at some point, which was why she was glad to be rid of him. Or maybe it was the memory of a threat, or connected to how he had carried out the murder? It can mean whatever you want it to mean. It's treated so lightly in that first episode, and she's so sanguine about it, that it's hard to know.**

**Obviously, John doesn't care about privacy anymore.**


	4. Anthea

"Anthea"

There wasn't any point in trying to contact Anthea; John wasn't particularly interested in seeing her again. He understood why Sherlock would be drawn to her, at least from a physical point of view. Enough for her to have a poem? Apparently. If doing this kept Sherlock on track, that was all to the good.

He slit the envelope with little regard for the name scrawled across it, and pulled out the pages.

* * *

She was beautiful. Sherlock could acknowledge that; he was only human. His love was only to last for a very short time, however. How could it not, when she worked for his brother?

"What's your name?" he asked, tucking his hands into his pockets to hide the trembling. Her long, dark, wavy hair had his hands itching to touch.

"Anthea," she said, after a pause. He sighed internally; it wasn't her real name. Would he be able to guess it by the end of the car ride? She was here to take him somewhere; the large black car outside the small flat was out of place in this fairly dingy area. Here, Sherlock believed himself to be outside of Mycroft's reach; his brother was unlikely to visit.

About three seconds after they set off, Sherlock tore his mind away from Anthea long enough to deduce their destination.

"The Diogenes," he said.

"That's right," Anthea said. Something fluttered inside his chest.

"What does my dear brother want with me?"

She shrugged. Not a great conversationalist, clearly; but that didn't matter. Sherlock could talk enough for both of them, and made deductions on every passer-by. It was likely that deducing anything about Anthea aloud would alienate her. Not that it ever seemed to make any difference what he did.

"Are we nearly there?" he finally asked. He knew they were only a few minutes away, but he was trying to hear her speak again. She always sounded amused. Whether she was laughing at him… well, he hoped that she wasn't. It wouldn't be the first time—

"Yes," she said. Sherlock nearly grinned.

"Will you be taking me home afterwards?" he said, voice deeper than usual. Her shoulders jerked upwards as though she was silently laughing, and she nodded.

His meeting with Mycroft was as terse as always.

"There are few willing to work with you," he said. "You have a habit of rubbing people up the wrong way."

"Just because there are so many idiots out there—"

"It never seems to stop you," Mycroft said sharply. Sherlock scowled. "I have pulled some strings, and one of the more promising detectives has agreed to give you a trial run."

"Oh, goody."

"Sherlock…"

"May I go now?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft appeared to be unimpressed.

"Here is Lestrade's phone number," he said, pushing a piece of paper across to Sherlock. "The next time he has a difficult case, he will call you. Add that to your contact list so that you will not ignore it. Understood?"

Sherlock made a face, but nodded. Mycroft summoned Anthea back into the room, and he instantly relaxed when he saw her.

In the car again, he was about to commence another attempted conversation when his phone buzzed with a message.

'Don't even think about it, Sherlock. Mycroft.'

'I never stop thinking, Mycroft. To what are you referring? SH.'

'My assistant. She is not for you. Mycroft.'

Sherlock's expression soured again, and he messaged back, 'Are you married to her? SH.'

'Of course not. You would know. Mycroft.'

'Then why shouldn't I want her? SH.'

'Want all you like, brother. But do not expect anything. Mycroft.'

'WHY NOT? SH.'

'She is aromantic and asexual. Mycroft.'

Sherlock knew both of those terms, and felt his heart sink. He didn't bother to reply; and by the time he was dropped off, he had given up any ideas of being with Anthea. He searched for the name on Google, and was surprised to find a poem with that very name. Had she chosen it as her alias based on that? Either way, it was easy enough to purge the memory of his brief attraction.

_To Anthea, Who May Command Him Anything_

Robert Herrick

Bid me to live, and I will live

Thy Protestant to be;

Or bid me love, and I will give

A loving heart to thee.

A heart as soft, a heart as kind,  
A heart as sound and free  
As in the whole world thou canst find,  
That heart I'll give to thee.

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay  
To honour thy decree:  
Or bid it languish quite away,  
And 't shall do so for thee.

Bid me to weep, and I will weep  
While I have eyes to see:  
And, having none, yet will I keep  
A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair, and I'll despair  
Under that cypress-tree:  
Or bid me die, and I will dare  
E'en death to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart,  
The very eyes of me:  
And hast command of every part  
To live and die for thee.

* * *

**Yes, this was based solely on the fact that I found a poem with this name. So I decided to use it. Perhaps this was what inspired the idea of doing a story with a different poem for each person? Maybe.**

**Please review!**


	5. Lestrade

"Lestrade"

Tucked inside his pocket were five envelopes. John pulled out the top one while he waited for Greg to answer the door. The DI's divorce had finally come through five weeks before, and he was still settling into a new flat. John had only visited a few times, but Greg was happy – as ever – to welcome him in.

"What've you been up to?" he asked.

"Sorting through Sherlock's things," John said. Greg froze mid-step. "Found something of interest."

"I bet there'd be a lot of interesting things," Greg said, and he cleared his throat. "Want a drink?"

"Sure."

Over a finger of scotch, John told Greg what Mycroft had told him, and what he'd found in the envelopes.

"There's one for you?" Greg asked.

"Yeah," John said. "Kind of saving it `til last."

"I'll bet," Greg said, and he tossed down the rest of his drink.

"This… this is yours," John said, and he pushed the envelope towards the inspector.

"M-mine?" Greg hesitated, a strange look in his eyes, and then he carefully broke the seal. He pulled out a sheet, read it, and then passed it to John. "I remember one night… I was so tempted, but I was still married, and I didn't…"

John nodded. He had no idea what Greg was on about, but he suspected that there was a hell of a story there.

* * *

Sherlock worked with Lestrade on three separate occasions before he lost his heart to the detective inspector. It was as he heard the inspector defending Sherlock to the wet-behind-the-ears forensic scientist Anderson. Sherlock only made a few comments about Anderson's lack of brains and personal hygiene, and the scientist – ha! – made some disparaging remarks about Sherlock's abilities.

"He's helped NSY solve case after case, and I won't have anything said against him," Lestrade said, unaware that Sherlock had hidden out of sight for a smoke. He hadn't even opened the packet of cigarettes before he found that eavesdropping on the conversation was far more stimulating.

"The man's a—"

"Genius," Lestrade said firmly.

"A psychopath!"

"No, he isn't."

"Sir, with all due respect—"

"Anderson, shut up. He has his quirks, I'm not denying that. And he doesn't have a brain-mouth filter. But he's absolutely brilliant." Anderson snorted. "I'm serious."

Sherlock, still out of sight, smiled. His heart lifted at the praise. That comment about a filter didn't even sting; Lestrade liked him for his brains. He had to! He took all of Sherlock's suggestions seriously, and actually understood once Sherlock explained his reasoning. After perusing the inspector's files, it was clear that he was a DI for a reason; he'd solved some of Scotland Yard's tougher cases, and he never gave up until a solution was reached. He'd made fewer mistakes than anyone else in the force.

All together, Sherlock was surprised he hadn't found himself pining over the man sooner.

He was so elated that it wasn't until later, after their third drink in celebration of a successful end to the case, that Sherlock remembered why he hadn't allowed himself to fall at the very start.

"Better be getting home," Lestrade said, collecting his coat and standing up. "The wife'll be wondering where I am."

With those words, Sherlock's heart shattered, and he cursed himself for conveniently missing the wedding ring. He was so distracted by the inspector's face, light, animated, handsome, that he… well, Sherlock was glad he hadn't given in to the impulse to lean over and capture those soft-looking lips. It would be wonderful to kiss someone, just once, just to see what it was like.

Whenever he fell for someone, though, they never wanted him in return, so there was never anyone worth kissing who was likely to reciprocate. Well, Lestrade was married, so he had obviously done something right to get someone to fall in love with him. If only Sherlock was so lucky.

"I'll walk you home," he said, also standing. He barely noticed the detective inspector watching him don his coat. There was nothing interesting about it. The coat was actually quite marvellous; but there was nothing special about how Sherlock pulled it on. Lestrade was simply admiring the cut. That's all it could be.

He… he was married.

"Cheers," Lestrade said, and they left the pub.

It wasn't too far to Lestrade's flat. At the foot of the stairs, they stopped. Sherlock was surprised that Lestrade didn't immediately bound up the steps to the front door.

"You didn't take Anderson's insults to heart, did you?" Lestrade asked.

"What?"

"When you disappeared to have a smoke, you were listening."

Sherlock gaped. "How…"

"I'm not a detective inspector for nothing, no matter what you think."

"…I know. I have the highest possible respect for you, Lestrade. You are the shining star in the so-called constellation called New Scotland Yard."

Lestrade chuckled. "No need to overdo it. I like you, too." He licked his lips. "I—"

Sherlock never knew what the inspector was going to say; for at that moment, Mrs. Lestrade opened the door and called out to her husband. Sherlock looked up at her. In an instant, he could tell that she was having an extra-marital affair.

He very nearly called her out on it. Yet he looked at Lestrade, how his face had softened when he saw his wife, and Sherlock decided to employ his seldom-used filter, and merely wished the couple good night. With any luck, perhaps Lestrade would find out for himself, and Sherlock could…?

No. He had no chance. The man was married, to a woman. He was clearly heterosexual, and even if he wasn't, he would never fall for Sherlock. No one had yet, and it was likely that no one ever would.

And yet…

Sherlock had already walked several yards before he turned around again. Lestrade had clearly been talking with his wife, and they were now walking up the stairs. Sherlock went out on a limb.

"Greg!" he called softly. What was he doing? Lestrade would never…

Lestrade half-turned in his direction, head cocked. He must have heard his name. Sherlock could hardly breathe, let alone talk. After a few seconds, the inspector shrugged, then stepped inside.

'Greg' was too common a name. Sherlock should have employed Lestrade's last name, as he usually did. Then the man would not have turned away.

Two weeks, and two more cases, passed. Nothing suggested that there was any trouble in the marriage. Either it had been a one-off (unlikely) and dismissed, or Lestrade knew and didn't care, or he still cared enough about his wife to miss the infidelity happening under his very nose.

Whatever the reason, Sherlock knew that he had to move on. Pining would undoubtedly start to impact his work, and his relationship with the DI. And so an envelope was labelled. Determined to forget as soon as possible, Sherlock trawled the internet until he found a poem which fit eerily well, wrote it onto a piece of card as always, and tucked the missive into the tin alongside three others.

_Happenstance_

Rita Dove

When you appeared it was as if

magnets cleared the air.

I had never seen that smile before

or your hair, flying silver. Someone

waving goodbye, she was silver, too.

Of course you didn't see me.

I called softly so you could choose

not to answer – then called again.

You turned in the light, your eyes

seeking your name.

* * *

**The poem which inspired this scene, and part-inspiration for this whole fic.**

**I like this pairing. Lestrade is adorable, isn't he?**


	6. Sally

"Sally"

Sgt. Donovan agreed to a private talk. John shoved her envelope into her hands.

"Apparently Sherlock was in love with you at some point," he said. "Or a crush. Either way, he chose this to express his feelings, then forgot all about them. I'd be interested to know more, but I guess I'll never…" He drew in a shuddering breath, and watched a strange look come over her face. "What is it?"

"I didn't know," she mumbled. She hesitated, then opened the envelope. She read the paper inside, closed her eyes, and held it out.

* * *

One day, Sherlock arrived at a crime scene and met Sally Donovan from CID. Sherlock always had a quiet (silent and reluctant) admiration for women working their way towards the glass ceiling, particularly in male-dominated workplaces such as the police force. She was working with Lestrade as well, and so the DI must have liked her well enough to put her on his team. He even went to the trouble of introducing them.

"Heard a lot about you," she said, shaking his hand and smiling pleasantly. He had already studied her, and returned her welcoming smile.

"I don't blame you for being single," he said. Her expression froze, and Sherlock heard Lestrade curse softly.

"What?" she asked. He magnanimously ignored that she left the 't' off the end of the word.

"You do not suffer fools gladly, as the saying goes, and nearly everyone that I have encountered is a fool. There appears to be a high concentration of that at New Scotland Yard, I've noticed. You really should get a new dog as soon as possible (oh, and my condolences on the untimely demise of the previous one) if you hope to keep away the neighbour's cat and the man next door who keeps pressing his attentions. A lover would, of course, perform the latter action admirably, although your obsessive neatness has proven to be a turn-off to some of the less foolish candidates you have put through their paces."

Sally stared at him. Lestrade cleared his throat, and grabbed Sherlock's arm.

"Let's see the crime scene, all right?" he said.

"Who've you been talking to?" Sally asked. Lestrade sighed, and Sherlock noticed him rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"No one," Sherlock said. "I merely observed."

"Right. Come along," Lestrade said, and this time he successfully dragged Sherlock away from Sally.

Over his shoulder, Sherlock winked saucily at Sally. She was single, clearly needed and wanted a man in her life, and must have been intelligent to get this far. Men didn't need as many brains to make it to her position, unfortunately. She would prove to be interesting to work with, he was certain.

After making his usual elementary deductions on the (literally) twin corpses, and bored once more, Sherlock walked over to Sally. He was going to try asking someone out again. He'd been wary of it, and had met no one of interest since Lestrade.

"Donovan," he said, stepping in front of her. She raised an eyebrow, no longer smiling, but he found that very few people smiled when they were investigating a brutal double murder. In this case, he could understand; there was no mystery about it, so it rated low on the exciting meter.

"Yeah?" she said.

"There is a public house near New Scotland Yard called The Feathers," Sherlock said. "I have not visited it myself, although I have been reliably informed that it serves a fairly good dinner, and that the drinks are exceptional. Would you be amenable to meeting me there at seven o'clock tonight? Lestrade has my phone number, should you be delayed."

"Uh…" She looked away, thought for a moment, and then looked back to him with a smile. "All right. Outside?"

"Absolutely!"

"Here." She pulled pen and paper out of her pocket, and scribbled down a number. "My mobile. Call if I'm not there by eight."

It seemed like an hour was excessive, but then Sherlock had no idea what modern dating rituals entailed. He accepted it with a smile, and then strode off. If he had even the smallest of skips in his step, no one would have noticed. They were a pretty thick bunch here, after all.

In the end, a simple experiment at home took a fascinating turn. It involved a visit to the nearest library, search after search on the world wide web, and hours of delicate, precise work to reach a conclusion. He recorded every result, and wrote the date and time at the top right hand corner of the page. That was when he noticed it.

It was nearly quarter past midnight.

"Oh God," he whispered, and he fumbled for his phone. He found the piece of paper with Sally's number on it, and made the call.

'The number you have dialled is incorrect. Please try again.'

He tried seven different combinations, ending up with a few 'oops, wrong number's, although her writing was perfectly legible and every digit clear. Had she used an old phone number? He had not had occasion to see her phone, so it was entirely possible she was using an old one. Yet there were no missed calls from Lestrade, or from any other numbers. Had something happened to her?

Sherlock rarely slept as it was; he spent all night curled up in an armchair, staring at his phone, waiting for anyone to call.

Only two days later a similar crime to the double-murder had occurred, and yet the perpetrator was someone completely different. That was according to Lestrade, but Sherlock would have to see for himself. He could not have possibly been wrong.

At the crime scene, he noticed Sally, and braced himself before he approached her at the yellow and black tape barring civilians from entering.

"Have a nice time the other night?" she asked, and he observed that she was very nearly smirking. That was not all he observed, and everything clicked into place with rapid, terrible accuracy.

She had not been serious. The phone number was meant to be false, possibly something she employed with any unwanted suitors, and she was expecting him to be upset, perhaps make a scene and humiliate himself further. She hadn't even turned up to see him waiting. For an _hour_? How could he have been so stupid to fall for such an obvious trick?

And she was seeing someone now. A work colleague? Did Sherlock's sensible suggestion push her into the arms of some undeserving moron? It was not Lestrade, so her unknown lover must be a moron.

"A delightful time," he replied. "Something far more appealing took my attention. Did I inconvenience you, Miss Donovan?"

"Sergeant," she said, her eyes narrowing.

"No need to call me 'Sergeant', Miss Donovan," he said, giving her his most innocent look. "It is just as well. Office romances never work out well, do they? I am sure you would know. If not, you soon will."

He lifted the tape, letting it drop behind him and concealing his hurt. He caught a whiff of familiar scent nearby, and noticed a man with dark hair, pulled back, wearing a blue forensics suit. Sherlock turned fully towards him, then back to Donovan. It was hard to tell, but he could have sworn that she blanched, and her panicked look at Lestrade betrayed her. Sherlock swallowed hard, and stalked into the town house to check the crime scene for himself.

Strong and intelligent women – and men – were always the ones to capture his heart, even for a short while. Sally Donovan had not only crushed his yet again, returning it in slightly worse condition; she had also effectively destroyed his hope in humankind. He resolved never to ask out another on a date again, nor would he ever accept an invitation from another.

It was the easiest deletion he had ever made.

_Appeal_

Edith Nesbit

Daphnis dearest, wherefore weave me

Webs of lies lest truth should grieve me?

I could pardon much, believe me:

Dower me, Daphnis, or bereave me,

Kiss me, kill me, love me, leave me,

Damn me, dear, but don't deceive me!

* * *

**His deductions get him into trouble once again. I think Sally was willing to look past whatever foibles he had until she could witness them herself, and make up her own mind. And then when she did… well… Sherlock sabotaged himself, didn't he?**

**I have no idea how long the affair between Donovan and Anderson is supposed to have been going on. I just figured that it had to start somewhere.**

**Anyway.**

**Please review!**


	7. Molly

"Molly"

John couldn't understand why there would be something for Molly. Surely Sherlock had deduced that she fancied him, and probably had for ages before they met? That wasn't something he could miss, was it? Mind you, if what Mycroft had said was to be believed, then it was entirely possible that Sherlock either truly did miss these things, or didn't think they could be directed at him.

Inside the morgue, he saw Molly tense when she saw him.

"I know I haven't been around," John said. "It's a bit," he swallowed, "hard. But I do have a good reason to be here. This was from Sherlock." He placed it on an empty slab.

Molly looked even more confused than upset. "What? I don't understand. How… how could he… I thought—"

"Well, it's not technically for you, but it is," John said. Then he explained what Mycroft had told him, what the others had said, and waited for Molly to pick up the envelope. When she did, it was with shaking hands.

"He never wanted me," she said softly. "If he did, he would've… _done_ something! Anytime." She shook her head. "This can't be possible."

"Look, it says 'Molly Hooper', and unless you know any other Molly Hoopers, it has to be you!"

He regretted shouting at her immediately, but she just smiled sadly and opened the envelope.

* * *

There was a new staff member in the morgue, and Sherlock had yet to be introduced to her. He noticed her credentials first, when he glanced at what he could see of her file. But the poor-quality photograph paled in comparison to the real thing.

"Dr. Molly Hooper," she said, holding out her hand. Sherlock only cared about carrying out tests on a corpse, and he could tell that Molly was taken.

Over the months, he noticed two changes in boyfriends. Then there were no boyfriends, and it almost seemed as though Molly was interested in him. But he knew better than to believe that could happen. No one had ever been interested before, and no one ever would be. He had resigned himself to that long ago, and passed off her attentions as friendliness, nothing more. Perhaps she was even hoping that he would put in a good word with her superiors. He did, of course. She gave him free reign; consequently, the higher her position, the more he could accomplish.

In the meantime, he met John, found himself a worthy adversary in this mysterious Moriarty figure, and didn't know that he was capable of feeling anything at all for Molly until he lost her.

It was the day Jim from IT came to the lab. Sherlock soon deduced his sexuality, and inwardly chuckled at the poor attempt to slip his number onto the desk 'discreetly'.

Jim was barely out the door when Molly was defending him. Sherlock elaborated on his observations, subconsciously registering 'Why do you have to spoil—?', and watching uncomfortably as Molly ran from the room.

He couldn't understand it. Not at first. Not until after John said that he hadn't been kind, and a part of human nature penetrated Sherlock's mind. Humans liked to make others of their species jealous, and apparently that included flaunting prospective lovers in front of…

In front of the one they truly wanted.

Oh God. He'd mucked it up. Molly really had been interested all along. He could… he _should_ have noticed. It was his belief that he was unlovable which had caused him to fall on his own sword.

If life had taught him anything, it had taught him that second chances ran out. Who knows how many times he had rejected her without realising that he was doing it? Her face… just before she had run out…

There was no way she would consent to try a relationship with him now. If he was her, he would have given up long ago. And he was sure she would never forgive him for this.

He had missed his one real chance. His heart had never been invested in this, and yet it was breaking just as surely as if he had been in love with her all along.

And then he became mixed up in The Game, and it wasn't until they were back at Baker Street after the pool that he was idly flicking through his poetry book when he remembered, and became morose. He turned the pages, index finger stroking the edges, until he found what he was looking for. A poem he honestly never thought that he would have occasion to use.

Deleting his revelation would be hard, but at least the memory of his first meeting with Moriarty would be there to supersede it.

_The Look_

Sara Teasdale

Strephon kissed me in the spring,

Robin in the fall,

But Colin only looked at me

And never kissed at all.

Strephon's kiss was lost in jest,

Robin's lost in play,

But the kiss in Colin's eyes

Haunts me night and day.

* * *

**The alternative was that Sherlock fancied Molly when he first met her, but that she rejected him, not having a crush on him at that stage. But when I was watching 'The Great Game' again, I noticed his look after she stormed out. He was just so oblivious, and I decided to run with it and make it that he realised how oblivious he'd been all this time. You know, in this story's canon.**

**Meh. I know what I mean. Regardless, he always seems to react differently to how his deductions affect Molly than others' reactions to his deductions about them. Just an observation which may be entirely off the mark. What's your opinion?**

**Please review, m'dears!**

**By the way! The_Consulting_Storyteller has made a cover art for this story! For those reading this on AO3, the link is in the first chapter's summary. For those reading this on , I'll post the link in my profile.**


	8. Irene

"Irene"

Irene Adler was dead. Mycroft had told John, shown him the report. Her envelope was thick, thicker than Anthea's; and so he judged that it would be a shame to waste it by leaving the missive unopened.

He tore through the seal with a sharp letter opener, nearly slitting open one of his fingers, and pulled out the pages therein.

* * *

Something about Irene Adler fascinated Sherlock from the start. She had information that could bring down influential people, and yet she wasn't strictly using it for blackmail. Technically. It was protection, and she wielded it as surely as though it were a shield.

He was attracted to her brain first and foremost, as he might have been attracted to Moriarty were the man not a criminal mastermind who had tried to kill John. But when Irene attempted to seduce Sherlock, he was sorely tempted. She had no emotional investment in him, but she was a puzzle, and he was unlikely ever to gain experience in the physical aspects of love. He became infatuated, even after she confessed her sexuality…

Until it turned out that she was passing information on to Moriarty, which led to big trouble, and being forced to interact with Mycroft (hard to tell which was worse). Her cruel and easy dismissal hit him hard. No revealed sentiment on her part could possibly induce him not to crush his feelings beneath his heel, stamp them out of existence, as so many had done to Sherlock before.

"No more," he told Mycroft as soon as the latter picked up his phone. "I will not allow this to happen again."

"What, never?" Mycroft said.

"No. No more trust, no more… affection," he spat the sour-tasting word, "and no more envelopes. No poetry. Nothing. I am done with it."

"Sherlock—"

"The next time I appear even slightly fascinated in another person, stop me before I get any further, Mycroft. Do you hear?"

Mycroft sighed. "Yes, brother. May I… may I make a suggestion?"

"To stop me from feeling anything again? Be my guest."

"Not quite what I had in mind. However, I believe that some Keats is in order."

"…Hmm."

_La Belle Dame Sans Merci_

John Keats

Ah what can ail thee, wretched wight,

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has wither'd from the lake,

And no birds sing.

Ah what can ail thee, wretched wight,

So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest's done.

I see a lilly on thy brow

With anguish moist and fever dew,

And on thy cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful, a faery's child;

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long,

For sideways would she bend, and sing

A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She look'd at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna dew,

And sure in language strange she said,

I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept, and sigh'd deep,

And there I shut her wild sad eyes-

So kiss'd to sleep.

'And there we slumbered on the moss,

And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,

The latest dream I ever dream'd

On the cold hill side.

'I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

Who cried – "La belle Dame sans Merci

Hath thee in thrall!"

'I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam,

With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

On the cold hill side.

'And this is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,

And no birds sing.'

* * *

**The perfect poem for Irene Adler, am I right? Sorry the chapter is short; at least the poem is long.**

**Please review!**


	9. John

"John"

John stared at the envelope bearing his name. Sherlock must have been in love with him. How could he not have known? Had he realised it subconsciously, and made jokes and insisted that he was straight to stop himself from returning these feelings? Was it even possible, when he'd never so much as looked at another man like that?

'All mysterious with your cheekbones… people are definitely going to talk… no one will ever convince me that you told a lie…'

Okay, so he had looked at another man like that. Sherlock. He had looked at Sherlock like that, without realising it.

"Christ," John muttered, and he ran a hand down his face. He gazed at the envelope over the tops of his fingers again. "Better get this over with."

* * *

Sherlock had loved John all along, really. He knew that when he realised that his time was nearly up, that he was either going to die or have to fake his own death. The thought of no longer spending nearly all day, every day with his flatmate caused such pain in his heart that Sherlock truly did think that he would die then and there.

John Watson, it turned out, was the love of his life. And he was straight.

Goodness knows that Sherlock could understand the appeal of the female of the species. If he were to assign percentages to the people with whom he had fallen in love, at least seventy percent were women. In recent years – judging by the envelopes in his tin – the only man had been DI Lestrade. Not that Sherlock could remember the specifics; but he did keep the statistics in his mind palace.

With the box in front of him now, and the poetry book beside him, Sherlock grabbed pen and notepad, eyes trained unseeingly on the poem he had yet to write in his own hand.

Mike Stanford had done more than he could ever know when he introduced John to Sherlock. A friendship so great had been formed within the space of less than two days. A friendship which had been tested many times, but – ultimately – never found wanting, despite the arguments that strained it.

"I've never known how to be a friend," Sherlock murmured to himself. "I've never known how to be a lover. Now that I have the former, and desire the latter, and realise that they are one and the same… it can never be. It will never be."

He knew this. John would find another friend, would find a woman, marry, become a father… all without Sherlock by his side, and all because of James Moriarty. The man had burnt the heart out of Sherlock, and Sherlock had unwittingly assisted him.

Word by word, Sherlock inscribed the poem, using the neatest writing he had ever used. It was almost calligraphy. Although John would never see it, Sherlock knew that the man would appreciate such a thing. Presuming that he would not be disgusted by Sherlock's unwanted, unrequited interest in him.

The seal went down, and Sherlock pressed his lips to it. He'd never done that before, but it seemed the right thing to do. He placed the envelope in the tin reverently, closed the lid, and put everything away.

Yet, try as he might, Sherlock could not delete the memory of his feelings. They were too pronounced. John's insistence that he was not gay, that he and Sherlock were just friends – even just colleagues – did nothing to dim the overwhelming adoration that pervaded his heart. He grew increasingly frustrated, scrunching up the bed-sheets in his agitation. This was worse than any other time, and he grabbed his phone. He despised having to make this call, but only one person could help.

"Mycroft," he said. He winced at how his voice wavered. "I can't do it."

"Cannot do what, Sherlock?"

"I can't fall out of love. I know that I said I would never… but I was unaware that it had already happened. And now I cannot forget it."

"You will over time, Sherlock."

"And if I cannot? What then?"

"…Give us time, and we may be able to help you avoid doing anything unutterably foolish. Then perhaps—"

"There is nothing that can be done!" Remembering that John was in the flat, Sherlock lowered his voice. "Even if I could stop Moriarty, there is the little matter of John being one hundred percent heterosexual."

"Brother—"

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head violently. "I must go."

He hung up, and made for the wardrobe. It was deceitful to have a poem for John when Sherlock's affections were still very much present, and very much un-delete-able.

Before he could even touch the door handle, things began to happen, one after the other, until he and John had to go on the run. Then Sherlock had to remain trapped at St. Bart's, and then meet Moriarty on the rooftop. And then…

_Among the Multitude_

Walt Whitman

Among the men and women the multitude,

I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,

Acknowledging none else, not parent, wife, husband, brother, child, any nearer than I am,

Some are baffled, but that one is not – that one knows me.

Ah lover and perfect equal,

I meant that you should discover me so by faint indirections,

And I when I meet you mean to discover you by the like in you.

* * *

**One chapter remaining: the epilogue. Hurrah! I hope you've been enjoying the poetry. To think that it all started with one poem, and expanded into this.**

**Not sure whether I've mentioned it before, but I was originally going to have a chapter for Jim, where Sherlock was… well, not in love, but fascinated. The poem I was going to use was a bit similar in nature/tone to the one I used for Sally.**

**Anywho. Please review!**

**By the way, we'll get more of John in the epilogue, just in case you feel cheated by his short chapter. But honestly, what more can one say about their history?**


	10. Epilogue

"Epilogue"

They had gathered together, at John's insistence. It was another day where Mycroft had sent flowers to the grave, which always annoyed John. If it wasn't for him… He was just as culpable as Moriarty, just as complicit, in Sherlock's suicide.

On John's left was Mrs. Hudson, and then Molly. To his right, Greg and Donovan. John was in the middle, standing directly in front of the grave and glaring at the flowers. It was better than looking at the name on the tombstone.

"Got your poems," he said, holding up his envelope. The others were all holding or fiddling with theirs. "We wanted to say that we're sorry we never knew. Well, except Mrs. Hudson, `cause she knew."

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, tears streaming down her cheeks, as always. Molly placed an arm around her shoulders and held tight.

"I wish you'd said something to me," Molly said. She was suspiciously dry-eyed, and she looked almost angry. "I was always there. You could have said something, anything. I would have done anything to…" She turned her face away, and John looked at Greg, who cleared his throat.

"I remember one night," he said. "I think that might be when you gave up on me. When you saw my wife. Did you know she was cheating then? If you'd told me, then maybe we could've had something together. I guess we'll never know. I heard my name, you know. Heard you say it. You did, didn't you?" He sighed. "Reckon I won't get over you, but that's life. Or, in your case…" He gestured at the grave, then dropped his hand.

"Hey, Fr… uh, Sherlock," Sally said. She was clutching her envelope so tightly that it was starting to crumple in her hands. "I don't know how many people you've asked out before, but if I'm one of the few, I'm sorry. You insulted me, and I retaliated. Don't know whether you did go to the pub that night. I hope you didn't. If someone did that to me, I'd be royally pissed at them. And then I go and call you a freak all the time…" She wiped away a tear, and John felt half a pang of sympathy for her. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Hey. Did you know they've cleared your name?" She sniffled. "Your family did a good job with that."

"I'm sorry I lost faith in you," Greg said. His voice was unsteady. "It was only for… Christ, even a second would've been an hour too long. I shouldn't have doubted you. I didn't want to. And… thanks, for saving my life. Our lives."

Mrs. Hudson sobbed loudly, just once. Molly led her back to her car. Sally turned around, and headed back to Greg's car. He walked around and touched the gravestone, breathing heavily, before he followed her. That left John, and he squatted in front.

"Now everyone knows you're innocent," he said. "Your family's scary, you know that? The way your mum tore strips off Mycroft – in public; you would've loved that – and then she and your dad dragged me into helping them trawl through footage. Surveillance from Baker Street, CCTV from St. Bart's and the hotel where the jury stayed, the chips in your phone and Moriarty's recording the conversation on the roof. You saved us. And my last words to you… Look, I know I'm going over old territory, but…"

He trailed off, noticing something behind Mycroft's wreath. He stood, slowly moved around the grave, and shifted the arrangement just enough so that he could pick up the piece of laminated paper. His eyes scanned the poem, especially the last four words.

_Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep_

Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep;

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. **I did not die.**

'I did not die' was handwritten… in Sherlock's writing.

John clapped a hand to his mouth, trying to stead his fluttering heart.

* * *

**Mwa-ha-ha-ha! For I am evil.**

**I hope you all enjoyed the story. Thanks once again to donnabella2k7 for all her assistance, with this and other stories. She helped me make decisions about where to go with the plot, encouraged me, and basically got this show on the road. And approved the poems.**

**Did you like?**

**Edit: According to a guest reader, 'Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep' was written by Mary Elizabeth Frye, so I've fixed that.**


End file.
